


Sigourney Weaver Would Make a Great Zazzerpan

by joyousNuance



Series: sunt lacrimae rerum [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, dave talks smack about hollywood directors for a whole page, rose daydreams about their future together i guess, two grown ups cause a scene in a fancy restaurant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 06:52:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15625128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joyousNuance/pseuds/joyousNuance
Summary: Rose Lalonde has had far too many Hollywood directors contact her about adapting her book series.  Also, damn, Dave Strider looks pretty good wielding a broken bottle. Figures the first meeting between such artistic giants would end in a bang.





	Sigourney Weaver Would Make a Great Zazzerpan

He’s taller in person.

Dave Strider -- not David, he insists on introduction, taking Rose’s hand as though it were porcelain and giving it a firm yet gentle shake -- stood at least a foot over her, a neat six-foot-something in dark suit and red tie. There’s a smile on his lips, curt but not unkindly so, and Rose looks past the part where it’s artificial and professionally made. What in this business isn’t? 

He doesn’t sit until she does, regarding her with eyes obscured by the gold aviators nearly as famous as he is. Countless journalists, interviewers, and late night talk show hosts had asked about them, and the story changed every time. All that was really known about them was that he never took them off -- ever. No picture known to man existed of Dave Strider’s naked eyes. Truly, it was one of life’s greatest mysteries. Theories abounded, on internet forums, mainly, about what exactly was up with that, why he never took off the trademarked (and they were trademarked [what kind of douchebag wears their own merchandise?]) shades: from the obvious ‘PR stunt’ to the plausible ‘photosensitivity’ to the unconvincing ‘hiding an unflattering physical deformity/scar/birthmark’ to the absurd ‘secretly blind, like a reverse Stevie Wonder’ to the inevitable recursive inanity,  _ argumentum ad absurdum,  _ of if  _ definitely  _ being cybernetic eyes, you guys, this is the cyberpunk future we  _ deserve. _

Rose didn’t really give a shit about that. Maybe he just fucking wore shades. She didn’t have to be a celebrity (and she took great lengths not to be one, given her circumstance) to know that the celebrity gossip media circus was just that, a circus with no substance and only peanuts to show for it. Besides. Why he wore the shades didn’t really matter; it was the fact that he wore them at all. 

It was the fact that she’d seen them before.

“First of all I wanted to thank you for coming out to meet me,” he begins, sipping on a tall glass of something. Rose notes that he’s neglected to say ‘meet  _ with  _ me’ and opted for something more intimate. She wonders if that’s intentional. Then again, one wonders if everything about Dave Strider is intentional, from the shades to the suits to the seemingly-permanent six o’clock shadow, or if indeed  _ anything  _ about him is. “You’re a hard woman to get ahold of.” It feels like a compliment, as does the weight of his gaze upon her -- an almost physical thing, to be so noticed. Of course she cannot see his eyes, but somehow she knows they are locked to her own. 

“I enjoy my privacy,” is her practiced reply. She gets that line a lot. “The public eye is not a beast I care to often entertain, Mr. Strider.” The occasional book signing or workshop notwithstanding. Nowadays most of her time consisted of her solitary, secluded home, her laptop, her cats, and the contemplation of that which was to come. 

“Please,” he says, and Rose is sure he’s dialing up the charm, “call me Dave.”

“Nor,” she continues, unabated, “am I keen on entertaining those that would ruin the vision of my work.” Here she matches the intensity, be it imagined or otherwise, of his gaze with that of her own, a look that has silenced its fair share of naysayers, critics, and red ink editors. “There is a reason for that, Strider. You are not the first person I have had contact me about the Complacency.” 

He is still for a moment, but he nods: acquiescing to concede the point, perhaps. He doesn’t quite say ‘I can respect that’ aloud, and neither does Rose require him to, but it feels implied. A waiter coalesces from somewhere, offering menus and an expensive-looking bottle at Dave’s request before disappearing again. “So I take it Michael Bay didn’t read the source material,” he ventures, pouring something from a glass carafe into the tumbler he’s been nursing.

She finds herself somewhere between scoffing and laughing. Either way it is laced with derision and an exasperation that both is and isn’t genuine as she leans to rest her temples in a hand. “I don’t think he tried. At least Abrams had tenacity enough to read the Wikipedia synopsis.”

Dave huffs out what amounts to a laugh. “Really. I’d heard you’d turned down Tarantino. Well at least that his computer had exploded midway through a Skype call anyway. Sort of read the writing on the wall with that one. Hadn’t heard anything about Abrams.”

She waves her hand and sighs. It would be wistful if it weren’t vexxed and frustrated. “It’s a shame. He wanted Michael Gambon for Zazzerpan.” She looks up, pouring herself a glass from the expensive-looking bottle and keeping eye contact (shades contact?) with the man across from her. If it feels like a test to him, it is.

Dave grimaces. “Inspired. Might as well get Radcliffe and Watson in on the action, too. Congratulations, Lalonde, you’ve written Harry Potter fanfiction. You can’t use _Michael Gambon_ as Zazzerpan, he’s Dumbledore. Sure, he’s the guy everyone always picks for fancasts on the internet but there’s a reason those are drivel made by thirsty fans and actual movies have things called casting agents and directors who _know what they’re_ _doing and have read the books_. Cast Gambon and all anyone ever thinks about when he’s on screen is lemon drops and whether or not Calmasis put their name in the goblet of fire no matter how good or bad his performance is. What are you _doing,_ Abrams.”

Rose lets him talk and thinks, offhandedly, that perhaps this might not have been an entire waste of time after all. Imagine that. Someone competent? In Hollywood? Miracle of miracles.

He continues as Rose sits back in her chair, folding hands up to her chin. “Same goes for McKellen or Weaving or Lee, if he were still around. Sure, any of them could pull it off -- they’d probably each do amazing in the role -- but all you’d get for your troubles is even more comparisons to Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter than you already do.” 

“Don’t,” Rose warns, the first immediate protest she’s levied thus far. “The quip about Harry Potter fanfiction was enough to get your point across.”

She has to give credit to him looking properly placating, raising a hand in what she’s sure is supposed to be a gesture apologetic. “Sure. I know that. You know that. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I didn’t. Hell, anyone who’s cracked open those dusty tomes of yours enough to read the first brick in the wall of text that is the opening chapter knows that. Not gonna stop people from genretyping though. Not gonna stop people on Goodreads dot com from calling it the fucked up progeny of Game of Thrones and Chronicles of Narnia.”

Rose sighs, finishing her glass and pouring herself another. At least expensive-looking translated into expensive-tasting.

“My sentiments exactly. Anyway all that’s irrelevant because the actual correct choice for Zazzerpan was Carrie Fisher but of course that’s not viable anymore unless you know high-level healing majjyks.” 

“Nothing  _ that _ esoteric,” Rose laments. “Who was your second choice?”

Dave considers. “Sigourney Weaver.”

Huh. She’s listening, now. “I’m listening.”

Dave cocks a shoulder in half-shrug. “Weaver’s a tour de force. She’s carried half of anything she’s ever been in. Her flavor of sci-fi is divorced enough from fantasy to get people interested without jumping to conclusions like they would Gambon. Besides. Lady’s got a way with antagonism. Dunno if you saw her in Defenders-”

“I did.”

“-but she plays a villain better than she plays a heroine, if you ask me. Wasted on protagonist roles. Got an aura about her. Very powerful. That kind of ‘I could kick you in the face and you’d thank me’ vibe. You know?”

Rose lifts an eyebrow. “Right. And you’re certain you’ve no ulterior motives in that particular casting choice.”

He smirks. “None whatsoever.”

Rose considers. It wasn’t so terrible a proposal, really. She could work with that. And he was  _ definitely  _ right about Sigourney Weaver’s vibe, of course. “What about Calmasis?”

To his increasing credit, Dave doesn’t hesitate. “Harder. We’d want someone original, I think. Open casting. Have people send in their auditions. Not a whole lot of enby actors, even less if you don’t feel like casting someone pushing 30. Ian Alexander crossed my mind for a bit. Amandla Stenberg, too, and I’d go with them over Ian if you asked me to make a decision right now but in my professional opinion the franchise would benefit more from someone fresh-faced. Someone new.”

“The franchise,” she repeats, her voice flat. He’s done very well thus far. Against her own better judgement she’s starting to think he might be it. The shades certainly aren’t helping, in that regard. How many times, how many nights has she seen those shades. It could very well be him. Is that why he asked her here in the first place, she wonders? Has he been cursed with the same vision? Cassandra in a three-piece suit, Tiresias with a fountain pen. “Are the negotiations going that well?”

Dave shrugs, scratching his face. “I mean I thought we’d been getting somewhere. Besides, would  _ you  _ be happy if only book one ended up being adapted and it ended up like the travesty that was the Eragon movie?” Rose shudders at the implication, and Dave smirks, continuing: “Exactly. I won’t lie, it’d be a tricky beast to put to the big screen. I hate to say it but something long-form like a Netflix or HBO series might be better, but that’s a whole different animal and I have some capital-o Opinions on the HBO network that I’m not going to get super into right now. Besides, if you’ll allow me to get a bit pretentious-”

“Gods forbid you get pretentious,” Rose interrupts, and Dave snorts. 

“-cinema as an art form is much more refined than television. I’ll bring up Netflix and HBO again: they’re popular, sure, in some cases even incredibly so, but on the whole they can’t hold so much of a candle to the spectacle of big-screen productions. You’re probably thinking ‘but, Dave, Game of Thrones is one of the most popular things  _ out  _ there right now’ and yeah, you aren’t wrong, but for every Game of Thrones that costs ten million an ep there’s a Big Bang Theory that costs the same damn amount and don’t you dare tell me that anyone’s going around calling Big Bang Theory art. ‘Sides, you can take more risks shooting for film than you can shooting for television. You can do things  _ different.  _ You can say what needs to be said. Hard to do that with television.” He pauses, not to catch his breath -- Rose gets the feeling he could go (and probably has gone) on much longer diatribes than this -- but to whet his tongue on a ship of whatever it is he’s drinking (it’s not the rich red that stains the inside of her glass, but a light amber: bourbon, perhaps?) and compose himself. “A film -- a series of films -- would cement the Complacency in the minds of millions. People would be clamoring to see more. They’d go  _ insane  _ over it. It would  _ stick.  _ It’d even have the added bonus of getting people who haven’t read the series in on the conversation: it’d get people talking. It would get your message  _ out there _ . And I think that’s exactly what you want.”

And there it was. Rose narrows her eyes, swirling the wine around in her glass. She won’t deign to show it, not yet, but she’s as close to excited as she’s been in a long time and her heart hammers on the walls of her chest. “My message,” she repeats, innocently, dragging a finger along the rim of the glass. She looks up at him and can tell, even behind the dark sunglass, that his vision is fixed to hers.

“Your message,” he affirms, setting the glass down almost forcefully on the table. He leans in closer, the flicker of a candle reflected in the dark of his shades. “The real reason I asked you to meet me. Like don’t get me wrong I’m mad jazzed you even agreed to see me under the guise of discussing an adaptation and I’m still incredibly interested in working with you in that respect but I think you and I both know there’s more to it than that.”

Oh. She was right. Her eyes widen, a fraction, and she sets down the glass without drinking of it. Subtly she glances this way and that before leaning in herself, shrinking the space betwen them -- space where their words might be overheard by treacherous ears. Her leg jitters beneath the table and it takes conscious effort to still it. “And what message, Strider,” she begins, catching a hint of his eyes through the glass as he leans closer to join her conspiracy, “is that? I have had many people speak to me about the Learned, Strider. Many have spoken about the Predicant Scholar. About the birthing of gods, about the fall of the divine. They are, invariably, wrong. I will ask you one question, and I hope for both of our sakes your answer proves satisfactory: What is my message, then?  _ What,  _ then, is the Complacency of the Learned?”

She has seen this before. In dreams, in visions, she has seen this, and it frightens and terrifies her all the same. There will be a moment where nothing moves. It will be as though the air chills, crystallizing and turning to ice in her lungs. Time itself will cease to function and there will be a moment where white-hot  _ panic  _ will flood her  for she has chosen the wrong question, asked it the wrong time, played her cards too soon-

He will not speak for a moment. His jaw will clench and it will unclench, the grip on his drink turning knuckles white before it relaxes utterly. He will reach out a hand to brush against her own and he will speak a single word. He will say,

“Prophecy,”

And the world will come flooding back into being. A breath she had not realized she had been holding floods out her nostrils, tense shoulders deflating with the act of it as though a paralyzing weight had been shrugged from them. The brief touch of the side of his hand breathed across her own burns before it is pulled away, hidden. Rose does the same. Beneath the table she balls the hand into a fist, curling and uncurling as to return feeling to the offending skin. 

Dave takes his cup and downs the rest of the drink in a fluid, practiced motion as Rose leans back in her chair to observe, regarding him with new eyes. So it was. This was him. Before her at last, almost exactly as she had seen it. Her senses fill in the gaps her foresight left, and the familiar sense of deja vu from a vision since-lived floods her for a moment. She draws a breath and is surprised to find it shuddering. She stares, and her vision focuses, shaving down everything in her periphery until his form, his face, takes on the whole of her sight. Her eyes gloss, turning from their rich hues to faded, a milky white film that almost glows in the ambient light of the restaurant. 

She sees the both of them, arm in arm. The ground beneath is rolled out in red, her heels clicking softly on the padded carpet. The click of camera shutters sounds like rain. She meets his gaze through two pairs of sunglasses (hers only so the sea of flashing cameras offer no insult to her eyes) and his lips quirk in what is the largest of smiles he makes in public. She glances down to see his hand resting comfortably, subtly, on the hilt of a blade. Her own grip remembers the feel of wands in hand, and together the two stride forwards into the theatre awaiting their entry. Rose tries to ignore how the doors are opened like a yawning maw, to accept and swallow them whole.

She sees her reflection in murky, tepid waters. She is laughing at a joke that Dave has just cracked as he paddles their makeshift gondola, looking incredibly pleased with himself and fitting her with the flash of his teeth. She gazes out over the waters, her arm lifting to point at a green structure jutting up from the inky waves. Dave grunts, maneuvering the boat closer. It’s strange, and perhaps sad, but even almost completely submerged the copper torch still beckons. Mother of Exiles, Rose thinks, will you accept two more, weary and tempest-tossed?

She sees Dave’s hand, carefully on hers. She looks up, and sees him. He has never looked so earnest. He has never looked so vulnerable. Nor so beautiful. “Rose,” he says. “Rose…”

“Lalonde?” 

Rose blinks. She is seated at a table. Her eyes fill back with their usual vigor, and shes sees Dave with a mild concern and a waiter with a mild irritation, a brow raised and a pen pressed to a notepad. A faint heat rises to her cheeks as she shakes her head, clearing her mind of the sights shown her. “Forgive me. I was. Elsewhere.”

The waiter attempts to conceal a passive-aggressive sigh. He does a real shit job at it. “Your order, ma’am?”

He cannot leave fast enough, and once he is gone Rose grabs for the bottle again, pouring herself a new glass to make up for lost time. There is a silence, almost tense, as she drinks, steadying herself. She takes a breath, both to calm her nerves and moor herself in the present. It’s not particularly effective either way. 

“Should I ask,” Dave begins, in a voice that is politically neutral. She raises a brow at him over the glass, and he shrugs. “That’s a no then. Cool.” 

Again, Rose glances around the restaurant, vision scouting out the entourage before settling on two suited men seated a few tables away. She hadn’t paid them proper mind before, but it would have been hard to. “You called my message prophecy,” she begins, eyes flitting back to his shades that gaze back so impassively.”

“So you’ve seen it too.” It’s not a question.

“I have seen many things.” It is not an answer. 

His lips purse. “Well, shit.” Dave’s hand reaches for the glass again, then reconsiders, taking the bottle of wine and drinking deep from it, not bothering to pour himself a glass. Rose can relate. It must be difficult realizing your dreams -- nightmares, rather -- would one day be reality. It had been for her, when she had first seen it.

A thin line of burgundy trickles down his chin. He wipes it with the back of his hand, setting the bottle back down to the table. “Yeah, alright. Cool. Might as well,” he says, more to himself than to Rose. He clears his throat, takes a breath much as she just had. “So. We were talking casting choice. I know some good casting directors, one of whom I know is a big fan of your work. I could shoot her a line right now and she could get back to me within the hour.”

And just like that he’s slipped back into the world-famous director, criminally known for letting nothing get to him. It is an impressive mask, to say the least. “I want full artistic control,” she says, eyes glancing back to the two suits. One of them turns their head casually to her table, snapping back to his partner when they make eye contact. Interesting.

“Absolutely not.”

“Then I leave, and Complacency leaves with me.” She motions as though to rise, but she knows she’s not going anywhere. The negotiations  _ were  _ going well, it turned out. 

Dave looks incredulous. “You don’t understand. Full artistic control? What you’re asking is actually impossible. You can’t solo a film production.  _ I  _ couldn’t solo a film production. I couldn’t solo film production on Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff and those movies are cinematic  _ shitposts. _ Have. Have you ever even written a screenplay before? It’s different than books. Much different.”

“I’ve written over two million words for Complacency, and there are still two books to go. A screenplay will be a merry jaunt through the botanical gardens compared to what I’m used to.”

Dave pinches the bridge of his nose. “No, listen. Fucking.  _ George Martin  _ only wrote  _ four  _ episodes of Game of Thrones, and that was considered wild.”

“You’d do well to stop comparing me to Mr. Martin, Strider,” she intones.

Dave’s mouth twists, gritting his teeth. He goes for the bottle of wine again and that seems to help him mull things overs. “Alright. Listen. Ms. Lalonde. Rose, if I can call you Rose. You’re protective of your work, and rightfully so. You told me earlier tonight you’ve been approached by Abrams and Tarantino and probably enough directors to make you at the very least consider dropping the search and shelving the project of an adaptation entirely. I understand that. I’ve seen how badly directors can shit over an author’s artistic vision, but you have to understand that that’s not what I’m trying to do here. 

“I want, as much as you want, people to see Complacency for what is  _ really is. _ ” He emphasises that, taps his finger on the table to underline it. “I want people to know what they’re in for. To read between the lines. I can’t do that unless you show me a little faith. You trusted me with a lot, coming here, and I appreciate that more than you can know. Now I’m asking you to extend that trust just a bit further. We both want the same thing, Rose.”

Her name sounds heavy when passed through his lips. It fits in a way it hasn’t on anyone before. She tries it herself, “Dave,” and finds it to match, the same. She frowns. “You are asking a fair amount from me. Trust is not something I can so easily meter out these days.”

He sighs. “I can relate. But I’m asking you to anyway. If it helps,” and here his voice grows impeccably softer, or is that just her imagination? “If you can find it in you to trust me, I’ll offer you the same treatment. Work with me, and my hands are your hands. You want something cut, it’s cut. You want something added, it’s added. It’s as close to full control as I can give you -- I have a team, but they’ll answer to us instead of to me. Do those terms sound agreeable?” 

He extends a hand. Rose stares at it a moment before cautiously extending her own. The touch of his skin doesn’t burn quite as hot, but it does burn. Her heart pounds. “Yes,” she says, and blinks in time to see them both, back-to-back, weapons drawn, ready to die. “Yes, I imagine they do.” 

“It’s sealed, then.”

_Our fates, you mean?_ Rose nods, and both of them breathe very deeply. The world seems to still in a moment that says ‘yes’. 

It is only for a moment, though, and Rose knows reluctantly that it is not one that can last. The suits are still watching them. Not paparazzi, certainly -- too well-dressed, and anyway  _ she  _ can’t see any cameras. Her fingers twitch, tracing a sigil in the air underneath the table to enhance her vision when the one facing her shifts. His suit jacket parts, and with the sight her magic grants her she can see the outline of what is clearly a holster beneath his starch white shirt.

Her eyes widen, and the spell fades as her vision snaps back to Dave, who is looking forlornly at the empty carafe his drink (bourbon? Probably bourbon) had been served with. “We’re being watched,” she says casually, keeping her voice even. For all their guests knew they could be discussing the weather.

Dave stills, allowing himself a curse. “Guys at my eight o’clock?” 

He takes to it fairly easily, Rose muses. Has he done this song and dance before? “The same. Hardly look like TMZ waiting for the next big scoop.”

“They wouldn’t need to, I have a guy in TMZ I feed fake horseshit to mask the actual horseshit I’m up to. Keeps ‘em on their toes.”

“So, the story about you building the world's tallest penthouse…”

“That one’s true actually. Anyway. Gawker?” He asks, hopefully “They’re always dragging my ass since I gave them a fake scoop and got their top sleazeball arrested for b, e, and general sleazery.”

“Unless Gawker has a propensity for carrying Brownings instead of Nikons all of a sudden,” she returns, eyeing him more closely now. She takes a light sip of her wine. “My money’s on the Baroness. She’s had it out for me since my first book. I published it under a pseudonym, but somehow she found me out.”

“What book?”

“You know those ironically children’s-book-esque books like ‘Go the Fuck to Sleep’ and ‘All my Friends are Dead?’ I wrote one called ‘Sea Hitler’s Water Apocalypse’,” she says, putting a finger to her chin. “You know, it’s almost funny. I haven’t been threatened at gunpoint in a long time.”

An eyebrow is raised. “Getting nostalgic, Lalonde?”

Her teeth flash for a moment, a quiet laugh startled out of her. “Something like that. I don’t suppose you have one of your famous swords tucked away in that three-piece of yours,” she inquires, looking him up and down and nearly spilling the wine as she brings it to her lips. 

“Oh, so you know about my swordplay,” he replies, and if his eyes were bare Rose would fully expect to see them twinkle, though as it stands the engine-throttle hum of his voice and the sharp, near-biting flash of his teeth has the desired effect.

“Save that for later,” she scoffs back, putting a wrist to her lips to hide the smile she bites down despite both herself and the actually very real danger they both may be facing. “And,” she continues, going over her options, “we shall need a distraction.”

Dave seems to mulls it over. “How attached are you to that dress?” 

Rose quirks a brow, lips pursed. “In the sense that it is currently attached to me, very, and attached to me it shall stay. Why do you ask?”

“Yeah that’s it that’s the reason exactly I was definitely about to proposition you into doing a fun striptease to the two guys with guns sent here to kill us you got it in one.” Dave makes a gesture that spells out fairly easily that which his words don’t --  _ what.  _ “My plan was to spill the wine. Make a scene. Deal with the problem on our terms.”

Rose blinks. Oh. “Well, in that case. Why didn’t you say so.”

“The fact that you assumed I meant otherwise-”

“Is one we shall have to discuss at a later date,” Rose interrupts, and will blame the faint heat rising to her cheeks on the alcohol, thanks. “So. Spill the wine?”

“The idea was I’d mess up your dress and you’d storm away in dramatic fashion towards our well-armed friends over there. Once you were clear, I’d slip out, wait for them to follow you, and we ambush them outside.”

“Hm.” Rose finds her reflection in his dark shades, adjusting her seat to catch a glimpse of the suits through the same mirror. “Risky. They could alert reinforcements before pursuing me, or perhaps not fall for the trick. Better to deal with them in a closed environ.”

“What, here?” Dave glances around at the other patrons occupying the space and the provided ambiance of quiet conversation and the clinking of silverware to plates. It wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t empty either. “Wouldn’t want stray gunfire hitting anyone.”

“Yes.” Cradling a fist with one hand, she audibly cracks her knuckles, regarding Dave with a passive look. “You asked me a moment ago to place my trust in you and offered me likewise treatment. Are you reneging on that deal so soon?” 

Pursing his lips, he returns the look, contemplating an answer. “No,” he says, after a moment. “I trust you.”

“Then spill the wine.”

He does. The unmistakable clatter of someone _fucking_ _up_ cuts through the soft noise of the restaurant like a heated knife. A rich, dark burgundy sprays out the mouth of the bottle, a lovely evening dress its staining canvas. The world goes still. There is a moment of hushed quiet, the ambient conversation of the restaurant falling to a shocked -- scandalized -- silence. Someone gasps at the violet that now stains the white fabric, and Rose gives them a violent indignation in return. 

He couldn’t have done a better job of it, really.

She stands quickly, her chair falling to the floor with a violent start as she fumes, face flush-red with embarrassment and rage. Before she can convince herself against it, she slaps Dave full across the face, an audible smack offering testament to his indiscretion before she stalks off, heels clacking on the fine floor like nails hammered into a coffin. 

The men in suits stare on, confused, as Rose approaches. With a whisper writ by the breath of an ancient, frost collects itself in the palm of her hand. The suit’s eyes go wide as her own go briefly dark. For a brief instant he scrambles for his gun, and of course it’s far too late for that but give the poor boy a chance, will you?

As she passes their table Rose  _ thrusts  _ an open palm against his throat, with enough force to send him and the chair falling back to the ground with a loud crash. Frost and ice spread from her fingers to his skin, climbing up his neck with a noise like splintering cold. She turns to the other suit in time to see him pull his gun from its holster and level it at her head. Someone screams that the man with the gun has a gun. The restaurant ambiance promptly goes pretty much to shit after that.

Rose regards the gun barrel calmly. It wasn’t the first or last. Before the man behind it can commit to pulling the trigger, though, Dave blurs back into the picture aside him, grabbing his wrist and wrenching it skyward. The gun goes off, discharging a bullet into the ceiling. People scatter. 

The suit manages to force Dave off him and levels the gun at this newest threat. Dave ducks out of the way as he fires again and gets inside his reach before he can get another shot off, slamming the suit in the side with a fist. His knee comes up to crack into his groin, and the suit doubles over, his mouth an  _ ‘o’  _ through which no sound comes. Grabbing a bottle from their table, Dave brings it down shattering on the suit’s head. Breath leaves the man in a sharp choke, and he slumps. Rose and Dave lock eyes again. 

Dave Strider looks pretty alright with a broken bottle in his hand, it turns out. 

“Getting nostalgic?” Rose teases, firing his own words back at him.

He smirks. “Something like that.” He gestures to the suit on the floor currently clawing at the ice encapsulating his neck. “That’s pretty cool.” Rose really hopes that wasn’t meant to be a pun. “Pick that up from somewhere?”

“Somewhere,” Rose confirms. Her eyes bleed black again, and the ice shatters. The man in the suit takes a wretched gasp of air, but doesn’t much move beyond that. “Perhaps I’ll even tell you someday.”

Dave grunts at that, prying the gun from the unconscious man’s grip and grimacing at it. “We should go.” 

“And things were  _ just  _ getting exciting.”

“They’ll stay that way if we linger,” he replies, as though they’re still on that earlier tangent about the weather, “but I’ve gone and left my swords at home like a damn fool.”

“Did you have somewhere in mind?” Rose asks. 

Dave smirks. 

* * *

 

A subtle but doubtless expensive black Lexus pulls out of the parking lot to a likewise subtle but doubtless expensive restaurant just at the familiar red-and-blue lights of first responders are pulling in. Unnoticed by the police, the EMTs, or even (strangest of all) the reporters already live on the scene, the car glides along and idles at a stoplight. The windows are tinted and the engine is a quiet hum that turns to roar as the light turns green, the car accelerating fast as it speeds into the night.


End file.
